


mirrored

by nothanks010



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Sleepy Bois Inc
Genre: AAAHHH NEVER POSTED MY WRITING ANYWHERE BEFORE, based off the lore for sbi and tubbo, lore story, made this in four hours with no spell check or grammar check, this is a story about lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:46:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27794812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothanks010/pseuds/nothanks010
Summary: written on 11/30/2020 a few hours after the new plot developmetn streams on the dream smp. if ur weirdchamp please leave and go away
Kudos: 5





	mirrored

Once there was a man. He stood with wings spread, above the worlds he had came and conquered. His empires had grown and fallen. The winged man once had twins.

The children had been taken from their home, and locked away from the public. Through the lab doors, screams that were originally high pitched and shrill would fade to silence.  
The man saw this and came for the boys. His sword flashed at the necks of the entities (called so, for surely, the things they did were not human)

The winged man held the hands of his adopted boys. One child was dressed in a cape of red, blood smeared across his mouth- or rather, a reconstruction of a snout. Various scars danced across his face and limbs.  
The second boy would never stop shivering. It would continue, despite his layers of clothing. Shaking, he would mention the weather. "I'm so cold," he said. "I'm so cold."  
The twins had been torn apart and picked back together and they would never quite be the same again.

The father and his sons traveled worlds. As they grew, they were trained. Laughing, sparring, and occasionally escaping potentially lethal situations, the family grew.

Once, upon entering a new world, the family was split apart. Though the winged man and the snouted twin reunited in a land of ice (the winged man began to understand his other son's constant chills), they became separated from the cold one. The father and son formed an empire, and conquered the world. Their victory, short lasted, was cut off by the second son, a keeper of the world. The son felt the weight of his responsibility, but the coldness began to take hold.

Another day, the family competed in a tournament. With them was another child, much like the twins had been years ago. The boy whirled and shot and stabbed and shouted. It seemed to the winged man and his twins that he had known this boy for far longer than they had. To the boy, it seemed the same. The family left that arena with one more son in the mix than they had arrived with.

Another world traversed, and another road walked. The twins, who no longer looked remotely similar, plodded along, inspecting maps and locating any establishments that they were to avoid. The winged man soared above, casting shadows for miles about. Dashing ahead, the child with the sword spotted a crate on shoulder of the dirt path. The twins looked up at the gleeful shout of their younger brother. The winged man swooped back to the earth.  
In the crate, a fourth kid with dirt on his nose and his shirt misbuttoned, rested against the walls of his wooden box. An outstretched hand from the boy with the sword, and a nod from the winged father, and then the boy in the box had joined the mismatched twins, their erratic brother, and their winged father.

There came a day, as there always will be, where it went wrong. The winged man's travel between the worlds had reached its limits, and scattered the patchwork family.

The twins were torn apart once more. The snouted twin, once trembling at the sight of his own scars, grew himself in anarchy and in blood.  
The freezing twin found himself sprawled on a forest floor, along with the other two boys. The forest was cold, but the boy with the sword and his friend with mismatched buttons did not seem to notice. Not knowing what else to do, the group forged off on their own ways, to find a new home. In the backs of their minds, a shadow of their winged father remained.

Growing ever colder, the stranded twin tried to find warmth. He built a country with his brother. It was a haven for the boy with the mismatched buttons, a soon-to-be traitorous king, a girl with a bakery, and the freezing twin's son. He had done his best to find warmth. Though his lover had gone, her traces in memory and child heated his soul. Soon though, the cold crept back. Though his victory in battle for his safe nation was successful, it did not stop the bitter temperature creeping under his blankets at night, nor did the blankets keep tears from freezing to his face.

The winged man and the war-struck twin watched from afar. They could not venture into the universe of the nation of the cold twin. However badly they desired to help, they could not. Their entrance would take immeasurable strength. While the two began their separate works toward the world, the second twin grew ever colder.

Fear of loss of his country led the trapped twin to hold an election. He believed it would solidify his hold on the special place. Instead, he lost everything. All he could feel as he relinquished his hold on his special place, his nation, his bit of warmth, was the encroaching cold. Shaking hands, fingers turning blue, cold feet carrying him away from the nation he and his (now speechless) younger brother had led and been ousted from. He was so cold.

Rushing air, and the snouted one had broken through to his twin and their brother. He only desired to remove the government. It caused only pain. Pain from his own childhood. Pain for his brothers. Pain for the people it claimed to protect. This man would stand only for anarchy.

Cold. So cold. What could make the twin warm? He doesn't remember what warmth was. He was freezing anyways. It was cold.

The winged father watched his sons. He could not reach them yet. Working toward the borders of the world, he tried to reach his freezing son. His efforts were to no avail. How could he be proud of his son? There were bombs under his former nation, and malicious intent in his frozen heart.

The younger boy and his friend held out hope for their nation. The friend, with a suit, feigned loyalty to the ouster of his best friend. Their plans with the cold one went awry. Locked into a box (this one was colder than his original crate from years ago), the tyrannist's voice called out for his blood. Ever a loner, the anarchist brother could not find a way out of the pressure to end the life of the boy in the box. In a shower of light, gunpowder, and the seeds of distrust, the boy in the box died for the second time.

Colder and colder. It did not matter that they could now take back the special place. It did not matter that his twin had killed their spy, their brother's closest friend. The nation was no longer a special place. It had a layer of permafrost, seeping into the twin's heart.

The brothers swept back into the former nation. The reclamation was quick. There was a joy sparked in the eyes of the younger two boys. The cold one did not want the country back. Despite his little brother's attempt (Foolish, really. It was too cold now.) to convince him the place was worth being special, worth saving. He rubbed his hands together. It really was cold in this room.

The winged man had to be close now. Air was rushing his eyes, his ears, just as he remembered from travel between the worlds long ago. He called to his frozen child. He had to make the time count. Suddenly, the father found himself in a small, dank room. A hewn roof and falsely hopeful lyrics stood out in the dim. The man reached toward his son. The soft argument did not last long. The father had seen what his child had become, and could feel the cold radiate off his body.

The son saw his father. At the same time, he saw the disappointment in his fathers eyes. He son knew we could not wait a single moment more. His special place had gone, and he could blow the permafrost of his nation away. And so he did. The cold son detonated his bombs as his winged father stood in shock. Now warming slightly, he grew excited, ecstatic, manic in ways he had not felt before. He begged for death. He wanted to be gone, done with his explosions and the cold. A sword plunged into his gut. The frozen son touched the metal, and felt the warm blood. As his head cleared with the heat that had been missing for decades, the unfrozen child was laid down for a final time by the winged father.

The anarchist stayed true to his ideals. He went by the means he deemed necessary. The remaining twin scoffed at his younger brother. Playacting a hero would do him no good. The demons that the anarchist possessed knew no difference between good deeds or bad deeds. Laughing, the anarchist vowed to return soon. Government, after all, never did anyone good.

The boy with the sword felt warm. It wasn't internal. He stood near a flaming home. Laughing, he lit another slab of wood. No one would know! It was just fine.

The boy's best friend stood in disappointment. Setting a court date for his vice president was not how his term was meant to go. He needed to keep his country together. He needed to keep the peace.

The father watched from afar. The scenario felt familiar.

The boy who had become the president put his best friend on probation. The country was being endangered, said the boy who had to carry the country on his small shoulders. It was all for the discs, retorted his friend who set the fire.

The president and the vice president walked away. The boy who once had mismatched buttons pulled a jacket closer around himself. Ever since his election, it'd been a little chilly. The boy who wielded a sword had a new spark in his eye and one ultimate goal in mind.

The winged father realized. The boys he watched from afar reminded him of his twins, years ago. The boys had begun to mirror that path of the twins that he had walked worlds with. The winged father sighed. There had been the freezing son, the war-struck son, the son with the sword, and a boy with mismatched buttons. There had been a cycle of worlds with pain, fear, victory, and loss. The winged father did not know what was to come.

The twins and the brother and the boy in the box. The cold and the blood and the demons. The winged man who had taken them all in. A mirrored path.


End file.
